False Flags
by thestylus01
Summary: When Ziva David is dropped into the middle of an operation, it's her new agent that makes the biggest impression. Telling the story later, Jenny Shepard would say: "She saved my life in Cairo two years ago."
1. Chapter 1

False Flags

by the stylus

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Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of their creators. The author makes no money from this work.

A/N: No one ever explored how Jenny and Ziva met. So I thought I might. In canon, pre-series-- and it might meander a bit. As always, all thoughts are most welcome.

* * *

_She saved my life in Cairo two years ago.

* * *

_Juliana Sandham leant back from the waist until her spine cracked with a satisfyingly sharp noise. She straightened and rolled her head, trying to loosen the kinks that had developed in her neck from crouching over the open containers that stretched endlessly in the tent's bilious shade. She swiped the back of a hand across her forehead to keep the sweat out of her eyes, mentally cursing the decision to run this operation in the summer months.

"Jules!" Magda's voice made her turn. The Czech woman stood at the tent's entrance peering into the gloom.

"Yeah?" She moved toward Magda's figure, a dark shape outlined against the bright sun.

"Hassan is back. Can you talk to him?" Magda spoke, as far as she could tell, about nine languages. It was unfortunate that none of them happened to be Arabic.

"Sure." Carefully avoiding treading on any of the neatly packed cartons of food and medical supplies she moved toward the entrance. Magda held the flap back as she exited, hastily pulling her dark sunglasses from her pocket. Before now, she'd never really understood how bright the sun could be. All the fantasies she'd been harboring of warm weather after her time in Russia had been burnt out of her in the first two months in Rafah. Now, she had fond visions of Alpine meadows and iced lemonade. She'd have to settle for a cup of tea with Hassan.

Across the compound in the tiny, sweltering building that housed their offices, she smiled at Hafiza, their local secretary and master of all things, and greeted her guest as he rose.

"As salaam alaykum." She held out her hand.

"Wa alaykum as-salam," he responded, shaking her hand. His browned, handsome face broke into a smile. "It is good to see you again, Juliana," he said.

"And you." She gestured for him to follow her toward the back corner of the bare room where the tea things were set out on a rickety pressboard table. They continued to exchange pleasantries while she prepared and poured the tea, and she found herself relaxing into the flow of the language, her thoughts moving from English to Arabic with a newfound ease.

Only when the first cup of tea had been drunk and she was pouring more did he announce his real business.

"We have made arrangements for distribution of the supplies in Gaza next week. I have brought the paperwork." He patted the canvas shoulder bag slung beside his chair. "The children will be particularly excited," he said, smiling conspiratorially.

She smiled back, thinking about the precious shipment of school supplies—colored pencils, markers, stickers—that she had been packing in the crates. The children would be excited, since the restrictions on the movement of goods had put such things at a premium. They shared a moment of silence, and she found herself thinking again what an objectively beautiful man Hassan was.

"I have good news as well," she said, finally. "We have managed to procure some extra resources." The casual listener, like Hafiza, would assume she had simply flubbed the local idiom, but Hassan leant forward and all trace of levity disappeared.

"That _is_ good news," he said. She outlined the arrangements in their established code, transforming armaments and technology into a list of bandages and construction supplies guaranteed to bore even the most avid listener. And there were none. Hafiza was on the phone, arguing vociferously with a minor bureaucrat, and other than the single fly lazily patrolling the ceiling, they were the only two other occupants of the office.

She sat back when the recitation was finished. "Good, very good," Hassan mused. "You will send them in the usual way?"

She nodded. "You know I am always looking for ways to help the cause."

"The appreciation of our people is without limit."

She poured the last of the tea into their cups. "How is your family?" she enquired.

"They are well. I have told them about you—about how much you care about our cause, how diligently you work. They are very impressed."

She sipped and remained silent, although her heart was beating double-time with the implications.

"In fact, they are eager to meet you." The waves of relief and trepidation that swept over her left her feeling clammy, even in this heat.

When she spoke, her voice was rock-steady. "It would be an honor."

He inclined his head. "I will make the arrangements." He then drained his cup. She followed suit and stood.

"Thank you for coming."

"As always, I thank you for your hospitality."

They crossed to the threshold. "Thanks, dude!" he said cheekily over his shoulder in heavily accented English as he left. Despite herself, she snickered.

She stood for a moment breathing as deeply as was possible in the oppressive heat. So she was going to meet the family. Well, it was what she'd wanted. She cast a look at the tea things, told herself she'd clean up later, and headed back to the supply tent, gathering her red hair into a loose ponytail as she went.

Magda met her halfway. "So? How is our handsome Hassan today?"

She shot the other woman a look. "He's fine."

"Just fine?"

"Just fine. What?" Magda had a strange look on her face, and at first she assumed it had to do with the good-natured ribbings she always endured after Hassan's visits. Then she realized Magda wasn't looking at her and turned around. A brown jeep was barreling down the dirt road to their headquarters at what looked to be at least twice the safe speed for the rutted track.

"Whoever that is has a death wish," Magda commented.

She smiled. "I'll go see what they want."

"You do that. Although if it's another cute man, remember that it's my turn."

She grinned and playfully shoved Magda's shoulder. "Go. Headquarters won't magically send us more supplies if you don't get the monthly evaluation written." The other woman made a dramatic gesture to indicate how much she was enjoying the process and headed back to the shade of the compound's lone tree, where she'd set up her laptop to catch any breeze that might happen to drift through.

Juliana headed in the direction of the jeep, now screeching to a stop in a cloud of dust. A dark haired woman climbed out of the driver's seat. Dark aviators covered her eyes, and her functional clothing—cotton, desert colored, littered with utility pockets—made her look like a hundred other aid workers Juliana had seen in hot climates. But as she studied the other woman, she immediately doubted her own conclusion. There was something about the newcomer that distinguished her. It was, for lack of a better word, her watchfulness. As she ambled closer, Juliana took her hands out of her pockets.

"Can I help you?" she asked in English.

The dark head turned in apparent surprise, although Juliana was perfectly aware that the other woman had been following her approach. "I am looking for Juliana Sandham." The English was accented but precise.

"You found her."

The sunglasses were shoved into the dark curls, and the brown eyes they revealed swept over her in a way that made her feel totally naked. Even the local men, who were professionals at undressing women with their eyes, hadn't made her feel so exposed with their gazes. Satisfied, the other woman stuck out her hand. "I am Ziva David."

* * *

End 1


	2. Chapter 2

False Flags

pt. 2

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As the redheaded woman firmly shook her hand, Ziva continued her inspection. The other woman had pushed her dark glasses onto her own head after Ziva did, allowing them to meet each other's gaze. Ziva wasn't sure she had ever seen eyes so green.

"I was told you'd be making contact."

Ziva drug her attention back and let go of the warm hand. "Can you get into town this evening?"

"Usual time and place?"

Ziva nodded. She extended the sheaf of papers that formed her cover. "These are the latest infrastructure surveys for southern Gaza."

"Thank you." The redhead tucked them under her arm, never breaking eye contact. "Nice to meet you, David."

"And you," she hesitated only fleetingly, "Sandham."

The other woman gave her a wry smile and turned to head across the flat plain toward the small trailer that seemed to be an office. She didn't turn back, even when Ziva's unique approach to first gear sent up a hail of dust.

* * *

At precisely 20.30, Ziva felt her companion slip into the chair beside hers at the rickety café table. Although she slid a glass of tea across, she didn't turn her gaze from the street until she was as sure as she could be that the other woman hadn't been followed. When five minutes had passed without any suspicious activity, Ziva relaxed fractionally.

She turned to her companion, who was sipping the tea and looking for all the world as though she were completely at ease. Some of that, Ziva conceded, might have to do with how tired she appeared. Her skin, remarkably pale for someone who had been in Egypt for at least four months, was stretched tight across her face, and there were dark circles under her green eyes. When she finished the tea, she looked across at Ziva and nodded.

The two rose and set off through the darkening streets of the Egyptian side of Rafah, dodging the children chasing each other through the dusty lanes and ignoring the cries of vendors attempting to sell the last of their wares before packing up for the evening. Ziva was pleasantly surprised that the other woman had thought to put her hair up under a hat; its bright red hue would have attracted unwelcome attention. _More_ unwelcome attention, she mentally amended, noticing how many male heads turned to follow their progress.

They snaked down narrow alleyways with Ziva in the lead, doubling back on themselves a number of times. Finally, an unmarked door led up a steep staircase. Ziva pushed open the door at the top, disabling the jerry-rigged security systems she'd left in place to ensure that no one visited while she was away. When the door closed behind them, the silence was weighty.

But brief. "About time," the other woman bit out.

"We could not reestablish contact until we were certain that you were clear."

"If you'd waited much longer there might not have been any contact to reestablish." The redhead was practically throwing off sparks, but as Ziva watched she collected herself. "I'm sorry. It's just been a long couple of weeks."

"There is not a need to apologize." Ziva knew her English, while correct, was stiff and formal, but she didn't feel the irritation she would have expected when it made the other woman smile.

"Let's start over." The redhead extended her hand. "Jenny Shepard."

Ziva smiled before she could help herself and took the outstretched hand. "Ziva David."

Shepard crossed to the dingy couch that sat along one wall of the attic room and sank down onto it. "Awfully young to be a control officer, aren't you?"

Ziva bristled. The other woman held up a hand. "Put your hackles down. I didn't mean it like that."

"Hackles?"

Shepard leaned her head back on the top of the sofa and closed her eyes. "Never mind." She switched to Arabic. "Shall we get on with debriefing?"

"Proceed," Ziva said curtly to disguise her discomfort at having to be reminded of the task. She turned one of the kitchen chairs backwards and straddled it.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, Ziva had been brought up to date on the arrangements for the latest weapons drop and was, despite herself, impressed with Jenny Shepard. When she'd been told she was coming into a potentially blown op, she'd been wary. Her superiors had assured her that the assassination of the former control had been tied to his previous work and that there was no indication his death was related to the current mission. Nevertheless, she'd been looking over her shoulder even more than usual since landing in Rafah last week. And suppressing a suspicion that the agent he was running had to have been involved.

It hadn't helped that Shepard wasn't a Mossad agent. Or that she was a woman. Entrusting such an important undercover role to an unknown quantity had seemed irrational, and she had said as much. But her superiors had made it clear that they needed the cooperation of the Americans. While Mossad could have cut the supply line of weapons being smuggled into Gaza in UNRWA supplies and through the tunnels months ago, the Americans had the capabilities and the resources to follow the arms back up the supply chain. And that, Ziva had been pointedly told, was their objective.

Looking at the file behind a desk in Tel Aviv, David had tried to picture what she would be like, the decadent American woman. Now she didn't know what to think. Jenny Shepard certainly wasn't what she had been expecting.

"And I haven't even told you the best part." Shepard's low, dry tones drifted from the couch, where she once again had her eyes closed. "I've been invited home to meet the family."

Ziva straightened so fast that the chair legs scraped across the floor. Shepard lazily opened her eyes, mirth dancing in her gaze.

"When? Where?"

The other woman shrugged. "I don't know. Hassan said he'd set it up-- get back to me."

Ziva's mind was working overtime. The fact that Shepard had so seamlessly embedded herself within the organization after only three months in place meant that she was very good. This was the breakthrough their agencies had been hoping for, but it was also a huge risk. Shepard would be totally alone in a strange place meeting with a group of terrorists who were running one of the more efficient weapons smuggling operations in northern Africa.

"Any reservations?"

Shepard was silent, staring at the far wall. "Not about Hassan," she finally said. "He's bought the cover."

Part of Ziva's job as a control officer was to cater to her agents' whims, keep them happy and enable them to worry only about the job at hand. In this instance, it was complicated by the fact that she and the other woman were virtual strangers this far into a delicate cover operation. Normally, she'd already know exactly how to read every nuance of her agent's tone and body language. Normally she'd know whether to push or coddle—insofar as Mossad agents could be coddled. But this woman, with her foreign hair and her foreign accent, was a stranger. All of the files in the world couldn't help her now.

"Have you ever been undercover, David?" The unexpected question demonstrated just how much she didn't know. She wasn't used to being surprised.

"No. I seem to have trouble _looking the part_." She dropped into English to use the idiom, unaccountably warmed to see a distracted smile pass across Shepard's face.

"It eats at you after awhile. Becomes too easy to lose yourself. And it happens so slowly, in such tiny increments—a bit here, a drop there. Meanwhile, you're always on guard. Always sure someone will notice the slightest mistake." She seemed to visibly shake herself. "Anyway, it's hard to stay objective, know what's real."

It was more than they'd said to each other in their entire acquaintance. "You are frightened."

She expected anger, would have received it from any Mossad agent, but was surprised when Shepard seemed to turn the statement over, examining it. "No. It's not that. Just… Something's not quite right."

"What?"

"If I knew, I'd tell you."

"I cannot be effective in my job, Shepard, if you will not talk to me."

"Jenny."

"What?"

"Call me Jenny."

"Why?"

The answer was so quiet that she almost missed it. "Because no one else does." She sighed and ran a hand through her hair. Louder, she offered: "American quirk. We're into informality. Look, I don't have anything concrete for you. Just my gut."

"And what is your _gut_ telling you, Jenny?"

"That they're nervous. Maybe gearing up for something big. Whatever is causing it, they're drawing in ranks. Hassan has been edgier of late. And Ahmed," who coordinated the nighttime deliveries of weapons to the compound in Rafah, "didn't say four words to me last time we met. Usually you can't shut him up."

"What do you want to do?" Both of them knew it wouldn't really matter what the woman on the ground thought if their agencies saw the chance to work her more firmly into the organization's hierarchy. The United States was still coming to terms with the post-9/11 world, and Israel had been staring into the darkness for decades. Jenny Shepard was about to go from good agent to invaluable asset.

"I'm going." The look that she fastened on Ziva was as hard as granite. "These bastards murdered five children in Israel last week. Fifteen children when you count the Palestinians who were killed in retaliation."

Ziva felt the old wound of Tali flare and ruthlessly tamped it down. "Tell me what you need."

* * *

Long after the other woman left, slipping into the night, Ziva sat at the wooden table and thought. She sifted back through their two meetings, searching for clues to who her new agent was, how she would react. The non-descript clothes, worn soft with sandstorms, draped over the shapely body; the freckled bridge of her nose; her restless hands and anger at their quarry: all of it could be important.

She had floated the idea of pulling Shepard out, mostly to see how she would react. The answer had been swift and decisive—and wry. "'Attack him where he is unprepared; appear where you are not expected,'" Shepard had quoted Sun Tzu, one side of her mouth twisted up. And then, in English: "No way, David."

Before she even knew what was happening, she had spoken. "Call me Ziva."

"No way, Ziva," Shepard had repeated, this time with a full smile.

So she had, now, something of the measure of the woman. But not enough to feel comfortable. She kept being surprised by the redhead, and it was not only uncomfortable for Ziva David, who thought surprise had been trained out of her—it was potentially deadly for them both.

She sighed and glanced at the clock. It was well past midnight, and she set about preparing a report for her superiors. They would be very eager to hear the good news. She spared only a brief thought for Shepard—Jenny—whose fate she was probably sealing with the same document.

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End 2

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Disclaimers in pt. 1


	3. Chapter 3

False Flags

pt. 3

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For the next four days, neither Hassan nor Ziva contacted her. This was the part of undercover work that Jenny normally hated: the constant, interminable waiting, nerves perched on a knife edge but with no outlet for the tension, each moment spent trying not to make a mistake. It got easier as each job went on and easier from one job to the next. But it never quite went away. At least here she could feel as though she was legitimately working while she waited.

Her cover, as a naïve but disenchanted American with strong pro-Palestinian sympathies and access to almost all of the relief supplies moving into Gaza, was good. Frighteningly good, and she had to admit that Mossad had done an excellent job of seeding the ground. Arriving in Rafah, she had slipped into the role of facilitator that had been left vacant when the Israelis quietly moved her predecessor aside. She hadn't asked what had happened to the man, who looked in his file picture like nothing so much as an Eastern European Santa Claus; she hadn't wanted to know.

Even being a woman, which she'd feared would be a handicap in such a patriarchal culture, had its benefits. She suspected that Hassan, Ahmed, and the others talked more freely around her than they would a man, assuming that she didn't understand the broader implications of what they said. They had written her off as an idealist, someone who would not notice the talk of numbers far too great to be confined to the Palestinian territories.

It was ironic that, while she sat around chasing shadows in the desert sun, waiting for either terrorists or Mossad to get in touch, she was probably doing more immediate good for more people than she ever had. Coming up on almost five straight years in the field, she had shocked even herself by turning out to be a more than competent administrator. And the eighteen hour days she was putting in to ensure vital supplies and infrastructure for the million Palestinian refugees on the opposite side of the border seemed paltry in the face of the need she saw each time they crossed over.

Blowing an unruly lock of hair out of her eyes, she studied the numbers Ziva had brought by on her first visit. If the Deputy Commissioner-General could squeeze more raw material out of the budget, she was certain they could get another health clinic built, staffed, and running in Khan Yunis within six months.

"Hey." Magda appeared over her shoulder, holding a bottle of water. "You stealing my desk?"

"Hoping for a breeze, but no luck." She accepted the water gratefully, straightening from her papers. The tree provided shade, but nothing stirred its branches.

"Explains why all the tourists are at Sharm el-Sheik and not in lovely Rafah this time of year." Magda settled back against the tree trunk, leaving Jenny with a clear view of her part and the hands she looped over her knees.

They sat in silence for awhile until the shrill ringing of the office phone broke the stillness. "I'll go," Magda volunteered. It was Hafiza's day off.

As she watched the other woman amble away, Jenny's thoughts returned to the enigma of her new control officer. Ziva David was, as she'd tactlessly remarked, young—even for Mossad. The bare-bones dossier she'd gotten indicated some previous association with Komemiute. Which was, she supposed, reassuring if she ever needed someone to watch her back in a firefight. She was less sure what it presaged for a field control officer, whose main job was to facilitate an agent's mission.

Ziva was also the daughter of Eli David, a fast-rising star in the Mossad firmament. Clearly, it was the family business. But she'd seen flashes of someone she might actually like—in the dry tone with which Ziva had noted the truth that couldn't really look like anything _but_ a Mossad agent. And again when the other woman had asked if she wanted to be pulled out. Jenny had almost been overwhelmed by the sympathy in the dark eyes and had found herself trying to reassure the younger woman. By now, she knew what she was getting into. And besides, she had her own reasons for being here.

Magda reappeared from the door to the office. "That was Cairo. They say we're go for the delivery tomorrow. Transport and escort will arrive at 9 and we'll head into Khan Younis."

"So we'll get up around noon, then?" They shared a conspiratorial smile, by now used to the fact that the combination of international bureaucracy and the Egyptian approach to time meant mentally adding four hours to any appointment.

Magda ambled back over and again settled by Jenny's chair. "Petr called," she said, tracing a lazy circle in the sand with her finger.

"I hope you told him to go fuck himself." Magda barked with laughter, though there was no mirth in it.

"I should have let you talk to him."

"Yes, you should. I could have told him exactly what to do with his--"

"Jules." Magda cut her off.

"Sorry," she said, not at all mollified. "I hate what he did to you."

"I know. And you are a good friend for it."

"But?"

Magda sighed. "But I still love him. I can't help it. I know he's bad for me, that he'll only end up hurting me again. But…"

She watched as Magda drew her knees more tightly to her chest, resting her chin on them. This op had been different in so many ways, not least because she found it so easy to care about these people. She stretched out a hand and placed it on the downbent head. Julia Sandham was tactile and unafraid of her emotions.

"Magda. Honey."

"I know." She gave a watery chuckle and raised her head. "It's pathetic."

"No—"

"Oh, don't argue with me. I'm not an idiot; I'm just in love."

"Well—" she drew the word out, gratified to see a real smile.

"Stop it, Jules. We can't all have every man who passes by throwing themselves at us."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," she defended.

"I know." The older woman pushed herself up from the ground. "That's what makes you so damn irritating." But Magda was smiling again.

"C'mon," she, too, stood and gathered her papers. "Let's put on some clean clothes, go into town and get something to eat. You can tell me why getting back together with the man who broke your heart would be a good idea."

"And you," Magda poked her in the ribs, "can tell me who it is you're holding out for."

* * *

She was hip-deep in smiling children the next day when Hassan appeared. At the sight of him, weaving his way through the throngs with a smile here, a pat on the head there, her heart sank. She was surprised at herself, at how much she'd hoped this day could be about just doing her job, distributing supplies and toys to the children and negotiating with the local UNRWA staff about her idea for a new clinic.

This _is_ your job, Jenny, she reminded herself sternly. She put a gentle hand on the head of the young boy who had attached himself to her right leg. "I'll be back," she promised, disentangling him. She pasted a smile on her face and moved toward Hassan.

He drew her off to the side, out of earshot of the lines of people waiting to receive aid. "You had no problems?"

"No problems," she confirmed. Her own revulsion at smuggling boxes of bullets into the conflict zone under packs of sterile saline couldn't count.

"Good." He was perfunctory, a contrast to his normal smiling self. "The family are eager to meet you. I will come for you Tuesday evening, yes?"

"I'll be ready." She watched him go, still unable to put her finger on what was making her so uneasy. When one of the local staff shouted her name, she gave herself a mental slap and plunged back into the chaos.

* * *

End 3

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A/N: Thanks for all the reviews. I appreciate knowing what people think works--and what doesn't.


	4. Chapter 4

False Flags

pt. 4

* * *

Ziva was waiting inside the door, her gun trained on the entrance, when Jenny arrived. "And hello to you, too," the redhead drawled.

"You are late."

"It was either that or arrive with a crowd of local teenagers in tow. They are… persistent."

Ziva lowered her gun but didn't move as Jenny crossed to the couch, tucking her legs under her as she sat.

"The meet has been arranged."

At that, Ziva did move, draping her arms over the back of the kitchen chair as she sat, though her weapons stayed within easy reach on the table. Both of them had a clear view of the door.

"Tell me."

"I don't have all of the details. But Hassan has established a rendezvous for Tuesday."

Ziva's mind was racing, trying to analyze the angles. She extended a folder to the other woman. "This is the information I've been able to pull together."

"New information?" Jenny leaned forward to take the proffered papers and began flicking through them.

"It would appear that your previous controller was not as assiduous as he could have been." Ziva hadn't been able to overcome her distaste at her colleague's carelessness. He had put the agent who trusted him with her life in danger by not giving her the information she needed.

Ziva remained quiet while the other woman perused the file. Her gaze roamed around the front room of the small apartment in which she'd spent so much time. The place was shabby and, in the afternoon, stifling. But it was quiet and the neighbors paid her no attention. It gave her the peace she needed to sift through the information that was coming in—some of which she was passing on to her agent, and some of which she wasn't. Telling an undercover agent too much could be just as dangerous as not telling them enough.

And she didn't know everything, either. Letting weapons move into Gaza seemed a violation of everything her training had taught her. Except that Mossad had tutored that all means were legitimate means, and that only one end mattered.

Jenny's voice brought her out of her musings. "Well, that explains a few things. I knew they were gearing up for something and that it was too big to be in Gaza. But if they're really moving this much inventory to Morocco…"

"It is not far to Europe."

"Or anywhere else, once they're on a ship," Jenny agreed. "What do you know about the sources of the funds?"

"We are still working on it."

One eyebrow climbed toward her hairline. "So you're not going to tell me what you do know?"

Ziva was not used to such insouciance from her agents. Mossad trained its members not to question their superiors. Her confusion must have shown on her face—which she resented—because the other woman waved the question off.

"Never mind. I know you'll tell me what you think I need to know. I'm just eager to nail these bastards." Something dangerous flashed across the green eyes. Jenny took a deep breath and leaned forward. "So, tell me something about yourself, Ziva David."

"What do you need to know?"

"Not need to know. Want to know. I'm putting my life in your hands. Shouldn't I at least know whether you prefer red or white?" Ziva struggled to find something to say, her resentment rising as the redhead broke into a grin. "Okay. Let's start with something easier. Where do you keep your knife?"

* * *

Half an hour later, Ziva knew that her new agent carried two knives, that she preferred red to white and bourbon to red, and that she hated being called by her full name. Shepard was still an enigma, though, seemingly open without revealing much about herself. It was a strategy Ziva recognized, and she admired the older woman's deftness.

"So, is anyone waiting for you back in Tel Aviv?" Jenny asked.

A frown creased Ziva's face. "I am a Mossad agent."

Her companion snorted. "That's not what I asked."

"Why do you ask?"

Jenny gave her a searching look. "You're young, you're attractive, you're intelligent… But you don't look like you get out much."

"I have little time for frivolity."

"That's too bad."

"Do you have, as you say, someone waiting?" Ziva supposed this was what people referred to as girl talk, although her limited experience had never encompassed such a thing.

"In the last year I've been in Khartoum, Sanaa, Tirana, half of Russia, and, for the last four months, stuck out here. Not exactly a schedule that's conducive to a serious relationship."

"Do you miss your home?" Ziva had worked abroad before, but never for longer than a few months at a stretch. Each time, returning home helped her remember the importance of what she did. Occasionally when she had a free afternoon in Tel Aviv, she would sit on the edge of the beach and watch the families playing in the surf. She never told her father, who would have scoffed at needing such tangible reminder.

She took careful note when Jenny didn't answer the question.

* * *

Jenny slumped down onto her narrow bed, listening to the sound of Hassan's vehicle as it faded into the night. She was exhausted and could feel herself crashing as the adrenaline ebbed. Staying alert for everything—every nuance, every inflection—working in a foreign language and culture—and doing it all while pretending not to be paying so much attention was nerve-wracking.

She had spent the morning turning over the information Ziva had provided her so she'd know what to look for and the afternoon working to forget it so she could act naturally. She was pretty sure she'd managed to pull it off in the end. The "family," Hassan's superiors in the organization, had been reserved but not hostile; and they had been receptive to her subtle hints that she was ready to play a more active role. They had bitten particularly hard on the idea she and Ziva had cooked up of a contact in Cairo who could provide heavier armaments than they were currently handling.

She pulled off her dusty clothes, noticing absently that she'd lost more weight. The heat and the food still didn't seem to agree with her, and holding down two full-time jobs wasn't helping. Yanking on a t-shirt, she slid between the thin sheets.

It was a long time before her brain would let her body rest.

* * *

Magda teased her unmercifully about her evening with Hassan in the days that followed, and she found it was easier, when the sun was up, to pretend that it had, in fact, been a simple assignation. At night, she studied the information Ziva was sending her, impressed with the speed and thoroughness of the younger woman's work. The connection in Cairo was established and ready in three days, something that would have taken Ziva's predecessor weeks.

Meanwhile, rocket attacks from Gaza and the inevitable IDF reprisals meant that she spent two days across the border in triage mode, including one ghastly afternoon scraping up pieces of charred flesh so that the local medical staff could be spared to treat the living. That night, she sat wide awake on a cot in their Jabalia headquarters and listened to the sounds of ritual mourning until the muezzin signaled the coming dawn.

Back across the border in Egypt she and Magda went to a party that an NGO was throwing. At first, her friend first moped in corner, sighing over Petr while Jenny plied her with drinks. Soon, Magda was mildly drunk and flirting with several of the expat aid workers while out-of-date hip hop mingled uneasily with Euro pop on the makeshift stereo.

Jenny retreated to a corner, nursing a lukewarm Meister and smiling as Magda danced with a particularly baby-faced Irishman. Several men approached her—and a woman or two—but she politely sent them all on their way. After her conversation with Ziva she was feeling slightly unsettled. And while she wasn't above indulging in a casual encounter to scratch the itch, she knew that wasn't what she needed—and that it would likely only make things worse.

She slept alone and studiously did not notice when the Irishman slunk out past her early in the morning. In the tiny kitchen, she silently handed Magda a glass of orange juice and grinned at her friend, who gave her the stink-eye. "Juliana. Not. One. Word."

She brushed Magda's hand with her own as she headed for the office. "I'm happy for you."

* * *

Hassan reappeared and she watched guardedly as he talked, his knee jiggling. But she smiled and made all the right noises. Then she told him that she was being sent to Cairo for a few days and waited. The next day, he dropped by unexpectedly. Buried in the reports he left were contact instructions for the cell in the capital. She memorized them, burned them, and then slipped into town for one last meeting with Ziva.

Ziva was everything she could have hoped for in a control officer. She was calm, rational, prepared, and meticulous. Maybe too calm. Her own nerves were humming, and while she knew she would be fine in the morning, tonight she needed an outlet.

The third time Ziva had her walk through the emergency code, she snapped. "For Christ's sake, I've got it, David. This isn't my first mission."

"Just once more," Ziva said calmly.

She repeated the sequence. "Happy now?"

"Yes. Now the safehouse address and the Shibboleths."

"I've _got _it." In English, her irritation getting the better of her.

"You've _got it_ when I say you have," Ziva said crisply in Arabic.

"Screw you! You have no idea what it's like, being out there in the field on your own. These guys don't fuck around, and if I screw it up, I'll be dead before I can even _think_ about getting to the goddamned safehouse." She sat back, breathing heavily, and squeezed her hands together to stop the mild shaking.

"Better now?" Ziva was smiling, not unkindly.

She blew out an embarrassed laugh. "Yeah. Sorry about that."

"Do not worry." Ziva let the silence linger while Jenny collected herself. "Now. The safehouse address?"

She dutifully recited it. When she rose to leave shortly thereafter, Ziva laid her hand on her shoulder. It was the first time they'd touched since their handshake. "Shalom, Jenny."

She placed her hand overtop of Ziva's. "Shalom, Ziva."

* * *

End 4


	5. Chapter 5

False Flags

pt. 5

* * *

Cairo was as overwhelming as it had always been. Nearly 18 million people teemed through the city streets, a cacophony of sounds, colors, smells. In the back of her mind, the idea that she could lose herself in the masses was a small comfort. Though, she thought ruefully as yet another teenage boy made a suggestive comment while raking his eyes down her body, she'd probably have more success if she bought a jilbab. "Your hair is like fire!" his friend called. "I want to get burned!" And a hijab.

At the Cairo offices, she tried to stay awake through a day composed of interminable meetings and innumerable glasses of mint tea. The work was important, she knew, but she much preferred the field office where she could get her hands dirty and actually see the results of her efforts. Which probably went some way to explaining her decidedly unusual career at NCIS.

When the meetings wrapped up, she'd told them she was taking a few days off in Cairo to visit friends. So when she awoke the next morning, after guiltily thinking about Magda trying to coordinate the supply run alone, she strapped on both of her knives and headed out to meet her contact. She regretted the absence of her gun, but it would have been far too difficult to explain if it was discovered. Whereas the knives, which always made her think of Rule Nine, were both harder to find and easier to justify.

She made her way to the rendezvous slowly, checking for tags, doubling back, lurking in a doorway down the street to ascertain where the watchers were—all of the things she'd learned the hard way. It meant that when she finally took a seat at the sidewalk café, she not only knew which was her contact but also that the man in the white jalabiya reading the newspaper and the window washer across the street were there to keep an eye on the meet.

The café belonged to a Western hotel chain, so no one would think twice about a foreign woman taking a seat at a table with an older man she clearly wasn't related to.

"It is good to see you again, Uncle. And on such a fine day, when all the birds are singing." She dropped the code words casually, though her heart was beating loudly in her ears.

"I am pleased, as well. It reminds me of the summers of my youth by the sea."

"And Auntie, is she well? I have been dreaming of her basbousa all week."

"She is well and sends her regards. You must come to dinner soon." The parole exchange complete, she settled back and ordered a tea. They sipped in silence, watching the never-ending river of human traffic that flowed along. When she finished, he placed a handful of piastres on the table and stood, leaving through the lobby. She followed a minute later, pulling a scarf over her hair when she entered the building. No one needed to remember seeing a redhead exit the hotel with an Arab man.

As she had done with Ziva weeks before, she followed him silently through the crowded, narrow streets. They finally entered an unexpectedly modern apartment. Five men—that she could see—lounged in the sitting room, smoking and watching a flickering television that they snapped off when she entered. One moved to the window and slowly scanned before pulling the curtains and nodding sharply.

She sat on the edge chair indicated, being sure to tuck her feet under her, and focused on appearing eager but slightly overwhelmed. On becoming Juliana Sandham.

"Thank you for coming to meet with us, Ms. Sandham." It was one of the men who'd already been in the apartment who spoke. From the way the others listened to and watched him, she surmised that he was the most senior man present.

"Of course." She bobbed her head. "I was honored to be invited."

"You understand the nature of what we are asking of you?"

"I do," she said seriously. "And I want to help. I'm in a position to help."

"We appreciate all you have done for us this far." She waited, letting them size her up. "And if you can deliver the goods that you discussed with Hassan, it will allow us to work even more effectively for the liberation of the Palestinian people."

"My contacts are reliable; they'll deliver." She was firm and silently thanked Ziva for her efficiency.

"Good." Only then did he make a curt gesture with his hand that had one of the other men scuttling into the kitchen to prepare tea.

"There is something I need to know, though," she said as the glasses were passed around.

"Please, ask. There are no secrets among friends."

"I just…" she trailed off, twirling her tea glass between her hands and looking around at the assembled men. "I want to be sure that the things I'm providing are being used to help the Palestinians. I know that I don't know everything you're doing," she added hastily. "And that everything doesn't come through Rafah. But—"

She was grateful when he interrupted her. "You need not worry. While our activities are not confined to the Occupied Territories, all of our efforts are directed toward the liberation of the Palestinian people." She caught the glances that the others exchanged, although she didn't take her eyes off the speaker's.

"Good," she said, giving him a bright smile.

He returned it. "Good. There is also the small matter of payment. I assume that your friend does not wish to simply donate his goods to the cause?" he asked wryly.

"No, I don't assume he does," she replied in the same tone.

They didn't exactly barter. She laid out prices, calculated to be just above market rate; he shook his head and tutted; and they settled on a price just below market. She hoped Mossad didn't mind taking a loss—maybe they could write it off. She kept close tabs on the way the others reacted, their muttered conversations as the discussion drug on. She was glad that no matter who she was at any given moment, Jenny Shepard, with her investigative experience, never strayed too far.

By the time she left, events were moving quickly. She arranged a meet with her contact for the next morning for Sayf Udeen, as the speaker called himself. _Sword of the Faith_, she mentally translated. Super.

At his command, one of the silent men followed her back to her hotel. When they arrived, she turned and thanked him quietly, amused to see a blush spread across his features before he slipped back into the crowd.

* * *

The meeting went well. Atef, the Mossad contact was, Jenny had to admit, excellent in his role and Sayf Udeen seemed pleased. She called Ziva from a PTT office, assuming that the phone at her hotel was either bugged or overpriced or both.

When she mentioned Sayf Udeen's name, she could feel the silence rushing down the phone. "You know him?"

"I know of him," Ziva said carefully.

"And?"

"Be on your guard."

Something else was bothering Ziva. The progress should have been good news, but Ziva didn't seem pleased. "What's wrong?" she queried.

"I do not know." Ziva's tone indicated that she wasn't pleased with that state of events. "We have heard some rumblings."

"Rumblings?"

"There has been a great deal of activity within the network. We are working on piecing it together. But Juliana…" Ziva hesitated, which made Jenny's heart plummet. "Be careful. If they suspect something is amiss, they will be scrutinizing everyone."

"And I'm vulnerable because I'm still a relatively unknown quantity."

She didn't need to hear Ziva's confirmation to know she was right. It explained the edge she'd sensed in the apartment today, as well as the tail she'd had to shake on leaving the hotel. Losing him was probably arousing some suspicion, but she couldn't take a chance on being overheard.

"Recommendations?" She knew Ziva was seeing intelligence she wasn't.

"We will establish a schedule of check-ins." Ziva again made her repeat the information three times.

"Who will be monitoring?"

"I will."

"You're here? In Cairo?" Normally the control established a base and didn't venture out. She had assumed Ziva would remain in Rafah.

"I thought it was only prudent, given the circumstances."

She hung up, slightly comforted by the thought that the meticulous, lethal young woman would be watching her back.

* * *

End 5

* * *

A/N: Thank you all so much for the lovely reviews. Your takes on the Jenny/Ziva relationship are really interesting and I hope you'll keep sharing them.


	6. Chapter 6

False Flags

pt. 6

* * *

Ziva hung up the phone and slammed the flat of her hand into the wall. "Kus emek!"

Her orders were clear. Unless they had confirmed intelligence that Jenny's cover had been blown, she was under strict instructions not to even think about pulling her out. And not to reveal the extent of the threat. She couldn't, for instance, tell her agent that a Syrian weapons dealer had turned up dead in his own home, his eyes open and two small, perfect circles in his forehead. Or that money had suddenly disappeared from several numbered accounts that the Americans had been quietly tracking. Or that two of the network's more senior figures had disappeared near Port Said last week. Or the rumors that swirled about Sayf Udeen, including that he'd sent two Bangladeshi exotic dancers home from work in Bahrain in pieces.

She understood the strategic decision--would probably have made the same one herself if she'd been sitting behind a desk in Washington or Tel Aviv. But she wasn't. She was stuck in a third floor apartment in Cairo whose floors sloped from east to west, and she was responsible for the life of a woman to whom she found herself unaccountably drawn.

She moved back to the papers that were strewn across the kitchen table looking for something, anything, that would provide clarity.

Four hours later, Ziva had a crick in her neck, a nasty papercut, and a nascent case of eyestrain. But no idea what was making her terrorists so nervous. Just a growing sense of dread.

It was time to leave in order to make the evening check-in. So she inspected the clip before holstering her gun and pulled on a thin jacket. Thirty minutes and two narrow misses involving motorbikes later, she took her seat at a sidewalk café. Five minutes later, her agent sat down at a café across the street, her red hair unmistakable. Although they never met each other's eyes, the newspaper she carried told Ziva that all was well. It was the second coffee she ordered, however, that made Ziva smile. The very complete dossier Mossad had assembled on Jenny Shepard had indicated that she was unlikely to be happy with the local preference for tea.

Casting one last look across the street, Ziva paid, folded up her own paper, and deftly plunged back into the warm night.

* * *

The next check-in went smoothly and provided Ziva a chance to eat breakfast. She'd been in signals most of the night with her own agency and people in Washington, as well some more local figures. The network was nervous. The disappearances in Port Said had had ripple effects across North Africa. Tel Aviv assured her that their information pointed to abduction by rival weapons dealers in a dispute over territory. But they didn't know whether their targets shared that theory. And if they didn't, it meant that Jenny was at risk.

Returning to the apartment, she collapsed into bed for a few hours. She awoke to the sound of a passing street vendor, the light on the wall telling her it was early afternoon. The smell of roasting lamb wafted in, making her stomach grumble. She ate a hurried meal of bread and ful, wiping her fingers on her pants before she headed out to meet a local contact.

It was good to be out of the apartment and moving. While she knew control officer was a promotion from her previous role, and that she was learning valuable skills, she found it difficult to adjust to the enforced inactivity. She missed the adrenaline rush that came with being in the field. And she was finding it harder than she expected to reconcile what she knew with what her agents were told. She didn't know how much of it was belated realization of the risks she'd faced without knowing it—refused to examine that thought too closely.

Meeting with her contact, whom she'd been cultivating off the books since her first trip to Cairo six years ago, gave her valuable information about the movements of some Uzbeck missiles but didn't clarify the current situation much. When she asked about the recent disappearances, he shook his head.

"It is a bad situation."

"Mukhabarat?" she queried.

"I do not think so." His tone implied that no one else with any sense did, either.

"Who, then?"

He hesitated, looking anywhere but at Ziva.

"Who?" she pressed.

"I do not know anything for certain." She glared at him, and he finally sucked a breath between his teeth. "Your people. That is the whisper I have heard," he hastened to add.

She fought the red haze that rose within her. "How certain are you?"

"What wise men suppose is worth more than the certainty of fools."

"Lives are at risk," she hissed, "and you quote me _proverbs_?"

His phlegmatic look was accompanied by a small smile. "When you are my age, dear girl, you will understand that proverbs survive because they are true. For now, I have told you all I can."

"I thank you for it," she said, knowing that the conversation was at an end. "And apologize for any offense I have given."

"There was none taken." His smile grew, and he extended a plate of sweets to her. She was reminded of how much she had always liked this old man whose gentle face and soft-spoken manner belied a razor-sharp mind and an awareness of seemingly everything that went on in Cairo.

When she rose to leave, untucking her legs, he pressed a packet of sweets into her hand. "Dear Ziva, you are too thin."

Despite her roiling thoughts, she left with a smile on her face.

* * *

When Jenny missed her evening check-in, Ziva didn't panic. Mossad agents were trained not to panic, and she was nothing if not well-trained. She waited an hour at the appointed place and then put the standard contingency plans into effect. While she paced the small apartment, she thought of all of the legitimate reasons that Jenny might have for missing the rendezvous. And discarded each one.

The clock in her head was at 3 hours post-rendezvous when the phone rang. "Yes?"

"It's Mikhail. The team has cleared her hotel room. Nothing."

"Front desk? Staff? Did anyone see anything?"

"We did our job, David. It must have been a snatch on the street. Or your American has run off to meet her boyfriend."

"Son of a pig," she snarled and hung up the phone with such force that the glassware rattled.

Calls to NCIS and her superiors in Tel Aviv produced similarly scant results. Everyone was concerned, of course. Jenny Shepard was their best link to the Egyptian arm of a sprawling network of arms dealers, terrorists, financiers, and general guns-for-hire. But no one had any idea where to find her—or even where to start looking.

When she asked, point-blank, about the Port Said disappearances, she was at first met with studied surprise.

"We were not involved," _her_ boss said.

"Don't bullshit me." They chased that conversation tail for several minutes before he yielded.

"Fine. It is none of your concern. It was entirely unrelated. Don't worry about the business of others, David. Worry about whether your agent has turned."

"She hasn't," Ziva ground out.

"How do you know? After all, her former control did end up with his throat slit."

It did give her pause. After she hung up the phone, she continued to puzzle over the statement. How well did she really know the American woman? She had felt a connection to her, certainly. And she respected her work. But Ziva had seen her file. Shepard was a top-class covert operative, used to spending long stretches of the last years under cover, convincing all of those around her that she was someone other than her true self. Finally, she shook herself. Until she had better evidence, her instincts told her that Jenny was in trouble not of her own making and that time was of the essence.

By now the dawn was starting to break and the streets of Cairo were waking to the shouts of vendors, the honk of car horns, the wails of the muezzins. Donning a change of clothes and her weapons, Ziva headed out for the only place she knew she could find a link to her agent: the apartment where Jenny had first met with Sayf Udeen.

* * *

End 6


	7. Chapter 7

False Flags

pt. 7

* * *

Eight hours later, Ziva had sore feet but little new information. She was fairly certain that they weren't holding Jenny in the apartment—it was too busy a building, with people in and out at all hours, children scampering all over, and windows that faced onto the street. They'd want somewhere more private if her suspicions were correct. And if that was the case, she needed more manpower.

Mikhail and his team arrived following her call. They weren't pleased about being pulled off their current op but dutifully met her at a nearby flat that Mossad kept for such contingencies.

"We need to track their movements," she said without preamble. "Thus far I have spied eight separate men entering and leaving the apartment, all at irregular times. There is no organized guard, which leads me to believe that this is primarily their living quarters. Business must be conducted elsewhere. Find out where and we may find Agent Shepard."

"It's _Cairo_," one of the team said bitingly. "Eighteen million people. Eighty square miles. And that's assuming that she's still in the city. Their headquarters could be anywhere. _She_ could be anywhere. What the hell do you want us to do?"

"Your jobs," Ziva said coldly. She felt Mikhail step up to stand beside her. They had worked together before; and while she knew he was a cold-blooded bastard, he was also efficient and absolutely dependable.

"If you don't think you can handle it," he said quietly, "I am sure other work that is less challenging can be arranged."

The prospect of desk work was enough to cow his man, and the meeting broke up quickly after that. Ziva left last but didn't return to her base. She had claimed Sayf Udeen as her quarry, and the hunt was just beginning.

* * *

Ziva moved stealthily through the darkened streets, unsure whether she should be grateful that Sayf Udeen seemed to eschew motorized transportation. It certainly made it easier to keep track of him; but it wasn't doing her feet any favors. He paused, and she stepped back into the shadow of a closed fabric shop. When he moved on, she gave him a bit more room before following.

It was nearing three am and the humid darkness was palpable, closing like a hand around Ziva. They had already made several stops, including a particularly memorable hour when she'd been forced to hide in a bin that she ascertained, too late, contained the castoffs from a butcher. She had had plenty of time to hope the butcher was halal. But while she had a wealth of new information for Sayf Udeen's file, none of the stops had brought her any closer to finding Jenny.

They were moving steadily away from central Cairo, which meant fewer people on the street and shabbier buildings. Ziva hung further and further back until she nearly missed the moment between him entering a shadow and him entering the door that the shadow concealed. It led into a faceless building, devoid from the exterior of any signs of life. She slowly skirted the front entrance and squeezed down an alleyway at the side, reaching back to unholster her gun.

There were no windows. The location and the overwhelming smell of marjoram, as well as faded paint on the brickwork, led Ziva to believe that the building might once have been a spice warehouse; but that didn't help her discern an entrance. The backdoor did not yield to her gentle pressure, and she suspected it was bolted from the inside.

A quick search of the surrounding property revealed little else that was helpful. There was no basement access and no easy way onto the roof from the outside. The neighboring buildings were close, but not close enough for her to hold out hope of connecting passages or a leap from the top of one to the other.

Finally she took a moment to pull out her mobile and have a hasty, whispered conversation with Mikhail. While she didn't know for sure what was inside the warehouse, she'd driven Sayf Udeen to ground and didn't think that waltzing in through the backdoor without backup was advisable.

That was the plan, anyway, until her ear pressed against the door caught the rising sound of several men's voices and then a faint low moan.

* * *

End 7

* * *

A/N: Sorry it's a little short. I'll make it up to you, I promise.


	8. Chapter 8

False Flags

pt. 8

* * *

Mikhail reached them just as she succeeded in picking the lock on Jenny's handcuffs.

"Are you all right?" he hissed.

"Flesh wound," Ziva responded. "She's in worse shape. They had cell phones on them—reinforcements may be on the way."

He turned to his team. "Secure the scene. Einav, Rosen: guard the doors. The rest of you, on the inside. Clean up; sweep for useable intel." They fanned out noiselessly.

Jenny was beginning to come around again and Ziva leaned in close to whisper to her, knowing they were both still half-deaf from the shots. "Jenny. We're going to get you out of here, but I need you to stay with me. Okay?"

The shadows made it difficult to see clearly but she could feel the other woman nod against her. "Okay," Jenny finally rasped.

"Mikhail. We're going to need a car near the door."

"We can't just drive up to the front—"

"A car. Near the door."

He glanced back at them for a long moment, then nodded once, sharply, and moved off to speak to his team.

She felt Jenny's hand twine in the front of her shirt and shifted so they were both sitting with their backs against the wall. "Ziva?"

"Shh. It is all right. Take a moment." One of her arms was wrapped around Jenny keeping her upright, which meant that they were pressed together, so she could feel the faint shakes that were skittering through the redhead's body.

"Bad intel."

"What?" Jenny's whisper had been low and the ringing in her ears still hadn't abated.

"Didn't tell them anything. They thought," she paused and coughed, smothering the sound with her hand and wincing, "thought I had something to do with a snatch of two senior operatives."

"Okay. It's okay." Jenny sagged back against her, and she knew she had to keep them both focused. "What's your status?"

"I think my left leg is probably broken. Maybe a concussion. Couple of bruised ribs." The ragged sounds Shepard was making and the way she held herself meant that those ribs were definitely broken. "Probably not going to win any beauty contests any time soon."

"We will buy you a burqa. The men will love you."

Jenny snorted and reached for her side. "Hell of a time to let me know you have a sense of humor, David."

"Anything else I need to know, Jenny? We can adjust the egress."

In the faint light that permeated the warehouse, the set of her agent's jaw was like stone. "Nothing else you need to know."

Ziva leaned back against the wall and waited.

* * *

"Where are we going?" Jenny asked once they collapsed into the car. Ziva had thought seriously about carrying her the last fifty meters from the door; but the other woman was stubborn enough that she refrained.

"The embassy."

"They know I'm American. They'll be watching it."

"Not your embassy." That drew a faint smile.

"Is it safe?"

"Safe enough. You need medical attention."

"I'm fine."

"I can see your tibia." Which was true, now that they were out of the shadows of the building and into the morning light. Ziva had a strong stomach, but she was amused to see the driver go a bit green around the gills at that statement.

"Yeah, well, your epidermis is showing."

"What?"

"Never mind." Shepard leaned her head back and let her eyes drift shut, and Ziva was reminded of the first evening they'd met, when she'd done the same thing on the couch. Now, with one blackened eye swollen nearly shut and dried blood stiffening the front of her hair, she didn't quite achieve the same restful effect.

"How long?" she finally asked.

"Thirty-six hours, give or take."

"Hmm. Felt longer." They were both silent for awhile. "How'd you find me?"

"Sayf Udeen. I followed him from the apartment where you had the meet."

Something flickered across Jenny's face, but she didn't open her eyes. "Is he dead?"

"Yes."

"Good." A long pause followed, and Ziva could feel her own side beginning to throb. The shot had been clean, but there hadn't been time to get the bleeding completely under control. She pressed down on the wound with one hand, sucking air between her teeth.

"Ziva?"

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

There was nothing to say to that, so she merely reached across the seat and squeezed Jenny's hand.

* * *

Ziva missed their entrance to the embassy because Jenny had the bad manners to quit breathing and take on a bluish tinge. Fortunately, someone had thought to phone ahead and they were met by a tall, reedy doctor who took one look the still form in Ziva's arms and began barking orders. Jenny was whisked away on a backboard while a remaining man—obviously trained as a combat medic, if his brusqueness was anything to go by—cleaned and closed the wound on Ziva's side.

There was a fresh shirt waiting for her in a conference room, as well as a satellite phone.

"Status?"

"We recovered Agent Shepard."

"Collateral damage?"

"Four. Mikhail is cleaning the scene." Ziva had dispatched the first two in the confusion her entrance caused. The third man, better trained but distracted, had gone down harder. The fourth didn't bear much analysis. If the gun hadn't fallen within the reach of Jenny's cuffed hands, someone else would have had to make Ziva's report.

"The operation?"

"Unknown-- I haven't been able to fully debrief Shepard. We have to assume it's blown."

"Understood. I will call the Americans."

"No. I'll do it." She was starting to wish she'd accepted the pills she'd been offered. The local was clearly wearing off.

There was an extended silence on the other end, then: "All right. Check back in within the hour. Good work."

"Thank you, Abba," she whispered into the dial tone.

* * *

End 8

* * *

A/N: For those of you who wanted Mossad!Ziva (you know who you are), it will come. But the story needed to be told in this order. I'll make it up to you, I promise.


	9. Chapter 9

False Flags

pt. 9

* * *

With the excuse that her people would want to know the status of their agent, she pocketed the phone. The embassy staffed were well-trained: none blinked an eye at her disheveled, dirty state as she wended her way through the halls.

She found her as the doctor was suturing the chest tube in place.

"I think that should do it. Between the pneumothorax and the broken ribs, I want you to remain as still as possible for the next few days."

Jenny's forehead wrinkled and she shook her head, but when she tried to speak she was wracked by deep coughs. The doctor frowned as Ziva stepped inside the door.

"Her Hebrew isn't that good," she told him.

"Ah." He repeated the instructions in Arabic and Jenny stilled, nodding.

"Where else are you hurt?"

Ziva didn't miss the way Jenny's eyes cut to her or the shadow that passed over the prone woman's face. Jenny wafted her hand toward her left leg.

"Yes, I'll have to set that. Where else?"

The gears turning in Jenny's head were almost audible.

"I need to call your people," Ziva said to break the silence. "I'll tell them you're all right." Jenny gave a terse nod but Ziva could see her visibly relax as she eased toward the door.

* * *

The call didn't last overly long. She spoke directly to the director of NCIS, who embarrassed her by thanking her for doing her job and made her more uncomfortable by asking after her health.

"I am fine, thank you," she said, sounding to herself like an English learning tape.

Ziva made sure to make more noise going back down the hall. As she stepped into the room, the doctor turned and spoke in rapid Hebrew. "I need to set that leg, and it's going to hurt like hell. My supplies are pretty limited, and I think oral pain medication would likely do more harm than good at this point."

Ziva nodded and moved to sit next to Jenny on the narrow bed, trying not to jostle her as she sat down. "Did you understand?"

"Not really." Her voice was scratchy. "But I think I can guess."

"We'll have to work on your Hebrew."

"Looks like I'll have some unexpected free time for lessons." Jenny's eyes stayed firmly fixed on Ziva's face as the doctor sorted his supplies and positioned himself alongside her mangled leg.

"Is the op blown?"

"I don't know." Ziva had to lean in a bit to catch her words. "They kept asking me questions about Port Said—two men I'd never heard of. They didn't ask about Rafah at all. I don't think they have any idea that we were tracking the shipments there. They were mostly grasping at straws, anyway. They're nervous, jumpy. They figured out pretty quickly that I didn't know anything. After the first few hours they didn't even bother with more questions."

Which meant that as long as they could provide a cover for the deaths at the warehouse, the operation might be intact. She'd have to call Mossad, tell them not to pull Atef. It didn't explain why they hadn't either killed Jenny or let her go, but Ziva had been around long enough to guess, particularly given the state of her clothes and that she'd found her chained to a pipe.

"Ready?" the doctor asked.

Ziva was surprised to feel Jenny take her hand, but she didn't say anything. The grip tightened at the sound of bone rasping over bone, and Jenny's face contorted in pain.

* * *

"What's her prognosis?"

The doctor, pulling the door closed, started at her voice. She handed him the clothing she'd been able to scrounge. All of it would be too large for Jenny, but given the circumstances that probably wasn't a bad thing.

"I would still feel more comfortable if she were in a hospital. She's in mild shock and needs blood and fluids. She also really should have an x-ray to follow-up on her lung, and I'm worried about infection developing in the leg."

"Is she in any immediate danger?"

"No."

Ziva looked at the doctor's earnest, open face and wondered if she'd ever been that innocent. "Then it isn't possible," she told him. "Make a list of what you need; I will have someone bring it to you here."

He opened his mouth to argue, but her expression must have made the futility of such a course clear.

He finally settled for shaking his head. "Do you know her blood type?"

"A positive," Ziva answered without hesitation. It was in her file.

"I'll need the supplies quickly."

"You will have them."

He turned, the donated clothes under his arms, moved back into Jenny's room, muttering to himself. "Intravenous antibiotics and fluids, plaster to set the leg…"

Ziva sagged a little against the wall. In the momentary quiet, the tinnitus from the shootout was worse, and she knew her headache wouldn't go away until she managed some sleep. But there was much else that needed to be done. Mikhail and his team had called. They'd staged the scene, and Tel Aviv was already disseminating misinformation identifying the shooters as a group of local arms dealers.

The rest of the cell would know that Jenny had been taken, but there was nothing to be done about that. They couldn't just create a body out of thin air. She'd call her local contact in a few minutes. The old man could suggest that the shooters had been seen leaving with a redhead. If Jenny were right and they'd discovered she didn't know anything, Sayf Udeen's men were unlikely to worry too much about what had happened to her. They'd be focused on saving their own skins—and their business.

She'd gotten her agent out, and they could ride out the coming storm at the embassy with few people any the wiser. For now, it was enough.

* * *

End 9


	10. Chapter 10

False Flags

pt. 10

* * *

Jenny woke at the slight noise and flinched before she could stop herself.

"It is only me." Ziva's voice floated out of the darkness. They were back to Arabic, she noticed.

"Is it time for my Hebrew lessons already?"

Ziva crossed the room and pulled the curtains open, letting ruddy light flood in. "Don't move," she said as she turned, reaching out a hand.

But Jenny was determined not to have a conversation lying flat on her back. She pressed herself upwards, gritting her teeth as her ribs protested vehemently.

"Stubborn," Ziva observed.

"You aren't the first to say so," Jenny muttered, breathing shallowly. Fortunately, the painkillers took the edge off of everything, including the ache in her chest and abdomen. And while she could feel the stitches holding the chest tube in pull when she moved, she no longer felt like emptying the contents of her stomach every time she turned her head—quite.

"What's going on?" she asked, when she realized that Ziva was still standing, arms akimbo, beside the window.

"I was instructed to wake you every three hours."

"Right. Standard concussion operating procedure. You'd think I'd know it by now. Well, I'm awake. Why don't you sit down and stay awhile?"

Ziva moved to the armchair at the side of the bed.

"Where exactly am I, anyway?" The room was so studiously nondescript—a bed, a chair, side table and dresser, only her IV pole to dress it up—that it could have been anywhere.

"In a spare room at the Israeli embassy. We are safe here while you recover."

"And you?"

"I am staying here, as well."

Jenny smiled at that. "I meant, how are you feeling?"

"I am fine."

"Ziva, you were shot. After hurling yourself around like a ninja assassin in a hail of gunfire, I might add."

She could see recognition dawn in the dark eyes. "It was not serious."

"Uh huh," Jenny drawled, amused as Ziva seemed to squirm under her gaze. "That's what I always say when a bullet passes directly through some part of my body."

"It did not go through," Ziva said primly. "It went… _alongside_."

With broken ribs and a chest tube, laughing was a real pain. "And you called me stubborn?"

"I stand by that comment." Ziva's tone was light, but Jenny could see the strain in her face and wondered how long it had been since the other woman slept.

"Is the mission blown?" It would explain the undercurrent of worry.

"We don't know." Her surprise must have been apparent. "I think we got out clean today. We're putting out a smokescreen for the warehouse killings—blaming them on business rivals. If they passed along the word that you weren't a spy, we might be able to salvage Atef's position."

Jenny sifted through what she had said—and not said. "You're short a body."

"You were—" Ziva paused and swallowed once, hard, "—spoils."

"Ah." Well, she had asked. Just for a moment she allowed herself the luxury of not meeting Ziva's steady gaze. But only a moment. When she felt the shadows start to creep in at the edge of her memory, she looked back toward the woman silhouetted under the window. There would be time later, alone, to relive the last few days.

"What happened at Port Said?" she asked to draw both of their attention elsewhere.

It was Ziva's turn to look away. "I don't know," she finally said.

"Bullshit." Jenny was a little surprised at how angry she was and how quickly. The rage flared down her body, warming her and dulling the aches for a moment.

"I can't tell you."

"Like hell," she ground out. "I just took my punishment and kept my mouth shut like a good little agent. The least you can do is have the decency to tell me why." By now she had levered herself up on her elbow and was glaring at the other woman. A fit of coughing overtook her, and Ziva had to help ease her back down on the bed.

"I really don't know for certain," Ziva said when the spell had passed. Jenny had to struggle a bit to hear her over the sound of her own ragged breathing. "But I suspect Mossad may have had something to do with it."

"What? Why?"

"Maybe to make it look like kidnapping by rivals—shake them up, see what they do when pressured. It wasn't clear at the time that you were making so much progress." Ziva's tone stayed level, and Jenny didn't know her well enough to know if that was supposed to be a sort of apology.

"It put everything we were working for at risk!" She knew individual agents factored into the calculus, but only as individuals.

Ziva shrugged. "It's a big agency. Priorities aren't always uniform."

It tempting to be swept up in the anger, which had the advantage of allowing her not to think about everything else that had happened. She'd used it in the warehouse, spit in one man's face and bitten another's cheek in series of defiant but futile gestures. But now, with nothing but the quiet young woman who'd saved her as a target, it wasn't as satisfying. She could feel some of the fight recede, and the throbbing pain flooded in to take its place.

"Jenny?" She was vaguely aware of Ziva's worried face but there wasn't enough air and her vision was greying from the outside in. Everything swam. "Jenny?"

There was a flurry of movement. Instructions in Arabic, then English. "Take it easy. Breathe for me. Hang on."

Finally, the pressure eased. Her vision cleared, and she found the young doctor leaning over her with Ziva hovering nervously behind him.

"Welcome back," he said. "You gave us quite the scare."

"What happened?"

"You pulled your chest tube out, which created all sorts of havoc between those ribs and your lungs. I thought I told you not to move."

"Stubborn," she croaked in explanation, gratified to see a small smirk on Ziva's face.

"I'll say. I've upped your morphine—your concussion doesn't appear to be worsening— so you should be able to sleep. It's the best thing. I'll be back to check on you in a few hours." He tucked the sheet under her chin and left, murmuring to Ziva in Hebrew as he went.

Ziva's dark eyes were grave. "Do not do that again."

"Sorry." She wanted to say more but sleep tugged at her. Though she fought, she could feel her eyes closing.

"Rest." Ziva's hand brushed gently across her shoulder. "I will keep the watch."

* * *

As Jenny drifted off, still fighting sleep, Ziva studied the bruised face and tried to remember if she'd ever disobeyed a direct order before. She had been tempted; and she had certainly on occasion taken a literal interpretation over the one that she knew had been intended. But telling Jenny about Mossad's involvement in the Port Said abductions couldn't be creatively construed or explained.

She wasn't entirely sure why she'd felt the need, except that something in those green eyes had seemed to require the truth. And she could tell herself that she was counting on the other woman's discretion--that, in effect, no one back home would ever know--but that hadn't even crossed her mind.

In truth, plunging into the warehouse had also been an uncharacteristic decision. She was good at what she did. But she had known too many colleagues felled by their own vanity to overestimate her skills. Going in alone, with no intel and limited firepower, would have been assessed as a suicide run. Except she hadn't really assessed it at all. She'd simply picked the lock and lowered her shoulder.

Her first roll had brought her to her knees two meters inside the door, and the sight of a man looming over Jenny's whimpering figure--even in the gloom, the red hair had shone faintly--had set off something inside of her. What followed had been unreal, her body operating without conscious thought as the shots roared and echoed in the enclosed space.

The first two were easy, falling like range targets. The third man had moved quickly, but she'd found good cover behind some discarded containers, and while the knife she threw hadn't killed him, it had spun him around, giving her a perfect line.

It was Sayf Udeen who shot her. He'd been at a remove from the others when she entered, leaning against a wall as if administering the scene. Getting to Jenny involved moving straight through his path; and though she'd again gone into a diving roll to change her target profile, she had been convinced, in a detached and disinterested fashion, that he was going to kill her. When the report from behind her crumpled him to the ground, that was the shock. She'd already been prepared to die.

Not until she touched Jenny's warm skin, feeling the sharp involuntary flinch under her fingers, did time and her understanding of it resume the same course. The hot pain in her side; the pulse under her fingertips; Jenny's wide, confused eyes; the scents of marjoram and cordite, stronger than the smell of blood: they all hit her at once.

"Jenny. It's Ziva. Are you all right?" she whispered. She spoke English to ease the disorientation. At the answering nod, she continued. "I counted four."

"Four," Jenny rasped in confirmation.

"Stay. I will be back." Ziva wasn't entirely sure leaving the gun in Jenny's hand was a good idea—she could feel how hard the woman was shaking—but she was mindful that they didn't know where all the dangers were.

She completed a sweep of the room quickly, ascertaining that there had, indeed, only been four men and that all were now dead. The fact that their shooting hadn't drawn anyone else in allowed her to relax for the moment, and she turned her attention back to Jenny.

The redhead was slumped against the wall, and Ziva's small flashlight revealed that her left hand was chained to standing pipe. Her clothes were nearly in shreds, and the eye Ziva could see was swollen almost entirely shut. She crouched beside her, pulling her lock pick set from a pocket. "Hang on," she said, as she bent over the cuff. She could feel Jenny slipping in and out of consciousness, knew that she taken a hit with the butt of the very gun she now held. "Backup is on its way. We'll get you out of here."

* * *

End 10

* * *

A/N: Ninja!Ziva. Because I always keep my promises. (Mostly.)


	11. Chapter 11

False Flags

pt. 11

* * *

Ziva sat down beside the bed with a stern expression. "It is time."

"Time for what?" Jenny had the vague idea from the light outside that it was late morning, but her internal clock wasn't to be trusted.

"For your lessons."

"Lessons?" She struggled against the lingering haze of painkillers and sleep. "Oh, the Hebrew lessons?"

"Yes."

"I sort of thought that was a joke. Something to take my mind off of other things." Looking at Ziva, she could tell the argument was futile. "But I guess it couldn't hurt."

"You have been liaising with Mossad for four months. It is reasonable to assume that you might continue to do so in the future. Therefore, a knowledge of Hebrew will be very valuable."

"You're right." She shifted up the bed. Despite the prohibition on sitting, she was damned if she was going to do this actually flat on her back. "Can you hand me a glass of water?"

Ziva simply stared at her and spoke a garbled sentence.

"Wha--? Oh." She sighed. "Okay." Her attempt to repeat what she had heard wasn't a total failure. Ziva smiled, handed her the water, and repeated the phrase again. It was going to be a long afternoon.

* * *

The Hebrew lessons turned out to be a mixed blessing. They gave Jenny something to do, in between sleeping and signing off on the seemingly endless operational reports that were churned out by some unseen Mossad desk agent, but they tied her still-muzzy brain in knots.

"I'm going crazy in this bed," she said at some point during the third day at the embassy. She waited impatiently as Ziva repeated the phrase in Hebrew and then attempted to parrot it back. As she spoke, Jenny parsed the sentence out in her head, fairly certain she'd wouldn't need the whole phrase in that exact form in the future. But then, she should have learned by now never to assume.

Of Ziva's response, she understood that it contained the verb "to do" and the second person singular pronoun--and little else. "I am serious, Ziva. I need something to do."

She cut off the ensuing rephrasing. "Stop it! I can't take any more."

Startled, Ziva slipped into Arabic. "But you will never learn if you do not practice."

"So be it."

"You are only beginning to become comfortable with the basic structures."

"I don't care," she enunciated. "I'm finished for today. I'm getting out of this bed, and you can either help me or get out of my way." Her bravado flagged slightly as her ribs protested, but she levered herself upward. Once in a sitting position she paused to let the spots swimming in her vision fade.

"And what do you propose to do once you are out of the bed?" Ziva had been even-keeled since her appearance in the warehouse, and while it had initially been a comfort, it was starting feel patronizing. Jenny glared balefully at the younger woman.

"Oh, I don't know. My job, if you'll let me. Otherwise, maybe I'll go downstairs and screen visa applications."

"I do not think your Hebrew is up to the task."

"Bite me," Jenny muttered in English.

"I do not under--"

"I know." When she swung her leg off the bed it, too, began to throb. She reminded herself to breathe shallowly--but to breathe. "Are there any--" she fished for the word in Arabic, swinging her arms wildly in pantomime.

"Yes." Ziva gave her a wary glance. Clearly she didn't look much better than she felt. But the other woman left the room and returned with a pair of crutches.

"Thanks." She hesitated a moment before heaving herself off the bed, leaning on the crutches and Ziva's shoulder for balance. The world swam momentarily but everything settled into its proper place, so she let go of the Mossad agent and tucked a crutch under each arm. A few tentative steps established that neither her ribs nor her leg were a fan of the new arrangement, but she did a circuit of the room before stopping, only to find Ziva smiling broadly at her.

"What?" she asked, defensively.

"I'm sorry," Ziva snickered. "It's just that," she waved a hand the length of Jenny's body, "you are flapping."

"Flapping?" Maybe it was a translation problem.

"Yes, you know--" Ziva broke off to wave her arms out to her sides. "Flapping."

Jenny looked down and realized that while the sweatpants she was wearing were roughly the right length and could be cinched at the waist, the same was not true of the t-shirt. It was many sizes too large and hung on her frame, and where her arms stretched over the crutches, the bunched material did probably flutter behind as she lurched along. She tried to suppress her own chuckle, but it bubbled up at the sound of Ziva's choked laughter.

Soon, they were both laughing giddily--more at each other than the initial comment. She collapsed back onto the bed, hugging her ribs with her right arm and wincing, unable to meet Ziva's eyes lest it send her back into hysterics. She stared fixedly at the line where the beige carpet met the beige wall and tried to breathe normally. She had almost succeeded, too, except that Ziva let out a sound halfway between a grunt and a snort, and that finished them both for another few minutes.

Finally, gasping, she pulled herself together enough to speak. "David, you have the absolute worst timing."

"I apologize," Ziva managed to choke out. "Even I did not know I was so funny."

When Jenny finally dared to glance over, Ziva was sprawled in the chair. Her head was back, her cheeks flushed, and she looked altogether happier and more casual than Jenny had ever seen her. With her dark hair tousled and her guard down, Ziva's youth was more apparent than it had ever been.

"How did you end up here, anyway?" she wondered. Only to realize when Ziva met her eyes with a questioning look that she had been musing aloud. "Sorry," she said somewhat sheepishly.

Ziva continued to regard her curiously. Finally, she said, "I have always wanted to join Mossad."

"I know. I read the file. Your father," Jenny continued. "I figured you were following in his footsteps."

"I was, although it was my own choice."

"Of course."

Ziva cocked her head to the side. "And you? It was not in your file."

She knew. She'd checked once, just to see what information crossed the lines between branches and agencies. Since then, she'd always been very careful to see that her file contained as little information as possible-- though it was probably much thicker than it had been before she'd essentially relocated to the eastern shore of the Atlantic. "I joined the family business, too. Only I picked the field that didn't require a uniform. And I like boats," she added as an afterthought.

Ziva didn't press, though she could see a flicker of curiosity in the dark eyes. They hadn't known each other long but were already good at leaving things unsaid.

"Anyway," Jenny glanced down, "any chance of getting clothes that fit? And then I need to talk to my people in DC--see what they want to do with me."

"What would you like to do?" She couldn't begin to read Ziva's tone.

"Our priority is following the money. I probably don't need to be here on the ground for that."

"That does not answer my question."

"No." It didn't. "I'd like to stay and bring them down." She kept most of the heat out of her voice.

She could feel Ziva watching her for a long moment before rising. "I will return with clothes that do not flap."

As the door closed, she blew out a breath she hadn't been aware of holding and allowed herself a moment to slump back onto the bed.

* * *

End 11

* * *

A/N: Thanks so much for all your lovely reviews.


	12. Chapter 12

False Flags

pt. 12

* * *

Ziva returned to find Jenny sitting stiffly on the edge of the bed, picking at a loose thread on the hem of her t-shirt. "These should fit."

"These are mine," Jenny said with surprise, turning them over.

"Mikahil's team bribed the cleaning staff at the hotel. I'll bring the rest of your things in later."

"Well, that will make my expense report a bit shorter." The humor was as dry as the Negev, but Ziva was getting better at hearing it.

"We have not yet sent anyone to retrieve your things from Rafah."

The breath that Jenny sucked in was a clear sign she hadn't yet thought about that. "Shit. What did you tell them?"

"Nothing, as of now."

"I was supposed to be back at work… yesterday, I think. My case officer in DC is listed as Juliana Sandham's next of kin. We'd better tell him what to expect."

"I will make a note of it."

"And I suppose I can't call? Say that I've been carried off by a dark-haired Israeli woman but that I'm fine?" Ziva didn't bother to tell Jenny what she already knew. "They'll file a police report."

"We'll take care of it."

"All right. I suppose my things can be sent back to DC eventually. Poor Magda… She'll insist on being the one to pack them up. At least it won't take more than two boxes."

Ziva kept, buried under the towels in her closet, a small box in which Tali's favorite stuffed rabbit lay wrapped in tissue. It had been the only thing she wanted, and she had packed it herself long before her father could ever bring himself to set foot in the room.

"Uh…" Jenny's hum of hesitation broke the reverie. "I might need a hand." She was twisted in the t-shirt, obviously struggling to raise her arms.

Ziva stepped up behind her and helped ease first one arm and then the other out of the sleeves. "This one buttons," she noted, pulling a shirt from the pile. "It will be easier to get on."

"Yeah, but I still have to get this off. Over my head."

Ziva reached out and lifted the shirt off, going still at the sight of Jenny's back.

"That bad?" the redhead asked, wryly. She didn't turn her head.

"Not so bad." It was the first outright lie Ziva had told her. The livid bruises mottled her entire torso and extended down past the waistband of the sweatpants. Her sides were particularly bruised, and Ziva could see what was probably a bootprint over her rib cage. On her left side, the white bandage from the chest tube was the only blank space. "Here," she opened the shirt and held it out.

"Thanks." Jenny took the shirt and awkwardly began to shrug into it. Ziva helped, wrapping it around her so that she could get her other arm in and pulling it up to her shoulders when that was complete. She kept her touch light, not wanting to press on the warm, damaged skin.

When she finished buttoning the shirt, Jenny turned. Her hair obscured her face slightly and she offered a rueful smile. "I suppose the jeans are out of the question. Because of the cast," she clarified when Ziva did not respond.

Ziva's mind dropped into gear. "Oh. Yes, I suppose so."

"So be it." Jenny finished the buttons and reached for the crutches. "Now, are you going let me do something or do I have to start harassing the embassy staff?"

Ziva contemplated the woman who faced her. The copper hair was in disarray; the button-down shirt bunched a little at the waist where the sweatpants were cinched in tight; and despite the light tone of her voice, her knuckles on the grips of the crutches were white. "Perhaps it would be better for everyone if I found you something mission-related to do."

"And some shoes. Well, _a_ shoe."

"Something mission-related to do and a shoe."

"Lay on, Macduff."

* * *

From Ziva's perspective the phone call to NCIS went well. She didn't follow the entire exchange, but from what she could tell, Jenny had convinced them that her local knowledge would be best used in Cairo for the time being. She'd reassured her superiors that the Israelis didn't mind loaning out two bedrooms and a secure line for a bit longer—a statement she'd looked to Ziva to confirm only after she made it—and pointed out that she wasn't exactly in any condition to head straight back into the field, anyway. Which Ziva would also have confirmed, had anyone asked. She wasn't sure how NCIS trained or evaluated its people, but Mossad would have insisted on requalification on the range and some hand-to-hand combat exercises after a kidnapping that included physical coercion, as well as a perfunctory visit to a psychologist.

Jenny, however, appeared slightly displeased. "Will you teach me to throw a knife?" she asked as she hung up. "I feel it might be a valuable skill if I get back to Washington and the Director's desk is too wide to reach across."

"I don't understand. Did you not get what you wanted?"

"I got what they wanted. I'm not sure it's the same thing."

"They are letting you stay in Cairo, yes?"

"Yes. At least for the next couple of weeks-- until I'm fit for duty again."

"And then?"

"Who knows? There were rumblings about Ras al-Khaimah. Lots of smugglers run through the Free Zone there, and the Navy's worried about protecting the petro-route through the Strait of Hormuz. Plus, my Arabic will be in very good shape."

"You do not want to go." Ziva could see the weariness settling over Jenny and knew that she'd have to find a way to get her back to bed before long.

"It isn't that. I just don't know how much longer I want to keep taking on deep cover missions. In a place as small as Ras al-K, insertion alone with take months. And even then, as a Western woman there's no guarantee I'll be able to convince the target that I'm legitimate." Jenny closed her eyes and ran a hand over her face.

"What is the other option?" She was genuinely curious. Her own life was so bound up with Mossad that she had never seriously considered the idea of leaving.

"I don't know. I've got a lot of goodwill built up—people owe me favors after the last few years. Maybe it's time I started calling a few in."

"To go back to the US?"

"No. Not yet. I'm not ready to go sit behind a desk with a supervisor breathing down my neck."

"I thought NCIS did investigations?"

"In the US? They do. But not the sort we're doing here. There, it's often more like police work."

"Ah." Ziva had seen American police procedurals on television. "So no targeted assassinations? That sounds dull."

That drew a smile. "No. No assassinations. Not that we condone such actions on foreign soil, either."

"Of course not," Ziva smirked. "Nor does Mossad."

Jenny snorted.

"I have a meeting to collect the information Atef has gathered. Perhaps you should return to bed while I am gone. You may take the casefile." Ziva held her breath, hoping Jenny would take the bribe. The other woman's pallor was already alarming, and she suspected the walk back to the bedroom would tax her remaining resources.

After a long moment, Jenny conceded. "All right."

"I will bring it," Ziva said, forestalling her reach.

"Fine." Slowly, Jenny rose to her feet. "But just so you know, David, I don't appreciate being patronized. Wiser men than you have tried to manage me-- and failed."

"Perhaps they were not as wise as you thought, then."

The quiet sound of Jenny's laughter carried them down the hall.

* * *

End 12


	13. Chapter 13

False Flags

pt. 13

* * *

For another three days and nights she shuffled between the featureless bedroom and the bland conference room that Ziva had commandeered. Stranded out of the field, Jenny began to follow the money, piecing together scattered bits of information from the files their agencies maintained. Most of the intelligence remained raw; since 9/11, it had been flowing in at an ever-faster rate and the US, at least, hadn't yet managed to train enough warm bodies to keep up. She combed through lists of numbers, rumors, names--all the detritus that their people and machines churned up-- only stopping when the throbbing in her leg became bad enough to blur her vision.

She envied Ziva her mobility. The Mossad agent was in constant motion-- in and out of her chair and of the embassy, meeting with her contacts and her colleagues. Meanwhile, getting to and from the bathroom remained a fifteen minute process for Jenny and bathing took an hour. She focused on getting lost in the rhythm of the work-- and on not moving her leg too quickly or breathing too deeply.

She and Ziva worked well together. The younger woman had a flexible mind, despite her by-the-book appearance. It led Jenny to wonder if wasn't possible the Mossad book she worked from was a little different from NCIS's-- even given the fact that her own training had included some extra material.

"Jenny?" Ziva was finally back, then.

"Hmm?" She didn't lift her head until the smell of food wafted into the room, making her stomach gurgle.

"What are you doing? That was the third time I called your name."

"I might have figured out where the money is coming from."

"Really?" Ziva leaned over to peer at the computer screen, a hand on Jenny's shoulder for balance. She could smell the other woman's day on her skin: the sharpness of sweat under dust, the sweet overlay of shisha smoke and tea. Ziva smelled of warm life and adventure, a stark contrast to the beige room filled with inoffensive art and cheap furniture where Jenny had spent the last eight hours.

"This name." She gestured toward the screen. "It's shown up in too many places to be a coincidence."

"Ghazan Marwat. Who is he?"

"I don't exactly know. Yet. The name indicates that he's Pashtun, and on the surface he appears to be a legitimate businessman, but I haven't been able to dig up any more biographical detail. I put together what I had and sent it back to DC and to the Joint Terrorism Task Force for the region. They have resources we don't." She felt Ziva's hair brush her cheek as she turned toward her.

"What do you think?"

"I think this might be it. It fits. On the ground they're probably moving small amounts of money to the individuals cells through hawala—you know, pay a man in Quetta and he calls his uncle in Kandahar or Tehran and that guy calls his son in Cairo who transfer the money to your man on the other end. I'm almost positive that's how Hassan was getting his payments. Those transactions are a dead end-- impossible to trace unless we can make one of the hawaladers talk.

"So at first I looked for travel patterns, transactions, anything that was happening at the same time as events we could trace. But it occurred to me that I was going about it wrong. Marwat's movements _precede_ all the important events. Everywhere things happen, he was there before—sometimes a week, sometimes a month, sometimes it's even just a company he owns doing a deal with someone local-- but he's always been there. And it's not just the Cairo cell. This is much bigger."

Turning from the computer, she used a pen to point out to Ziva the small bits of information that had added up to a theory: an immigration record here, a stray remark there, dozens of tiny fragments that might—or might not—make up a whole. Ziva slowly examined the papers she had spread across the table, putting each one back in the position it had started with a carefulness that made Jenny smile.

Finally, Ziva sat down and folded her hands. "It is a good find. But, as you say, we need more information."

"I know that." Jenny tried to keep the frustration out of her voice. "I've already sent the data back to NCIS. They'll pass it on to other agencies. We'll know soon enough."

Ziva just nodded and opened the paper sack she'd brought with her. The rustling sound was followed by the tantalizing odor of dinner.

"Oh, thank god," Jenny groaned. "I'm starving."

"Did you not eat enough for lunch?"

"Lunch?" She definitely remembered having a cup of coffee. Or three.

"Jenny, you must eat to keep up your strength."

"Oh, sure. For all this strenuous working I'm doing." She reached for the aysh Ziva held out, stuffed with ta'miyya and slathered with tahina. The first bite was still warm and she closed her eyes in appreciation. She opened them to find Ziva smiling at her. "Thanks," she said, sheepishly.

"If I had known you skipped lunch, I would have brought extra."

They ate in silence. Jenny was aware of Ziva's eyes on her but didn't meet them. Instead, she skimmed back over the notes she'd taken, looking for holes in her theory, trying to assess whether she'd simply seen something because she wanted it to be there.

"I talked to my father today" Ziva was crumpling the bag their dinner came in, twisting it into a tight spiral.

"Oh?" Ziva had never called him by anything other than his title in her presence.

"Atef has been providing us valuable information. And Mikhail's team has been investigating the men from the warehouse."

Jenny was grateful that her job had given her a lot of practice in keeping her thoughts off of her face. "Any progress?"

"Mossad thinks that it will soon be possible to determine the source of their supplies and instructions."

"I certainly don't think they're making the big decisions." Her official account of her captivity had included the valuable insight that taking her had been an exercise of initiative that clearly wasn't sanctioned by the higher-ups. When she didn't provide information, her abductors had begun to sweat.

"We agree. The Cairo cell is more muscle than brains."

"Yeah." She wasn't going to think too much about how accurate that statement was. Ziva was still twisting the bag, which was shredding under the strain. She nodded pointedly toward it. "What else did he say?"

Ziva was clearly considering whether to answer. She took her time, running her fingers through her hair, pulling it out of the ponytail and combing out the knots.

"He wants me to come back to Tel Aviv."

"Atef?"

"Can be run remotely as long as we need him."

"And Mikhail wants you out of his hair anyway," Jenny guessed.

"As soon as possible."

"What do you want?" she asked, consciously echoing their earlier conversation.

"They will not put me behind a desk," Ziva said softly. "But they will look over my shoulder."

"Can't be easy to be the boss's daughter. That why you started in a different division?"

"I had the appropriate skills."

"I know. I've seen you in action." It was the first time since it happened that Jenny had brought up the rescue. She was pleased to see a slight blush rise on Ziva's cheeks.

Just then the computer chimed. Jenny turned to open the new email. "It's the Task Force," she relayed to Ziva. "They've found something on Marwat."

* * *

End 13

* * *

A/N: One more chapter to go. Perhaps two. Thanks for hanging in there.


	14. Chapter 14

False Flags

pt. 14

* * *

Once it started, everything moved surprisingly quickly. Jenny's information had been quickly funneled from NCIS up to Homeland and DOJ, then out to the CIA, the NSA, and probably some places neither of them were cleared to know about. The name seemed to have worked like a key, opening the floodgates.

Several minutes after the email from the Task Force, the secure phones began to ring. The two women fielded calls from their respective agencies. Ziva, glancing over, was amused to note that Jenny argued with her hands, pinning the phone between her ear and shoulder when the conversation became particularly intense. However, she quickly gave up on trying to determine what was being said based on Jenny's expression. She didn't have time to pay attention, anyway. Tel Aviv, having received calls from DC, was pressing her to synthesize while she was still trying to catch up on the new developments.

Ziva did pause in her own conversation when Jenny's voice climbed in volume. "…it should be my call, Ken! And you know it."

Ken, whoever he was, must have acknowledged the point, because Jenny lowered her voice.

Sometime later—maybe an hour, maybe three—Ziva finally hung up the phone. She turned to find Jenny with her head buried in her hands, her elbows propped on the table. "So?"

"It's over," she said flatly. "We did it."

"And yet you do not sound happy."

"I just…" Jenny blew out a breath. "I don't like loose ends."

"Jenny." When there was no acknowledgment, Ziva reached over and tugged lightly on one of the hands that was tangled into the red hair. "What is bothering you?"

"I've been _instructed_," she enunciated carefully, "that the final disposition of the Cairo cell is none of my concern."

There was a tightness in Ziva's chest. She suspected she knew why this mattered so much, although Jenny hadn't said anything. They had killed four men at the warehouse, but that left at least four who remained free.

"I received no such instruction."

Ziva hadn't understood how studiously blank the other woman's face was until the façade slipped. A hundred emotions chased across Jenny's fine features before she clamped down on them. She shook her head and squeezed the hand that still held hers.

"Ziva, it's fine." The words were right, but there was no conviction in her tone.

"No. It is not." Ziva knew her own faults as well as she did those of any agent she ran. It was part of her training, part of learning to stay alive—you had to know your weaknesses as intimately as your strengths. She knew she could be stubborn and that her palate of right and wrong had few shades of grey. So when the anger coiled like a snake in her stomach, she knew that it wasn't to be trusted-- but neither was it to be ignored. She also knew that she'd already made her decision.

"It's fine," Jenny repeated woodenly. _Tenacious_, the Mossad file on her had said. _Dogged in pursuit of the objective; prone to self-doubt when frustrated, which may manifest as anger_. Ziva had smiled at the picture attached to the file, wondering if it was true about redheads and their tempers. _Often_ _skeptical of authority_. _Marked tendency to internalize responsibility for failure_.

"What does NCIS plan to do?"

"About the Cairo cell? Apparently, nothing for the moment. They're content to follow the money—see where it leads. Your people, as I'm sure you know, are much more interested in the weapons. I got the feeling that the Rafah cell is about to lose its smuggling routes."

"Indeed." The officer Ziva had spoken with had been almost gleeful when he informed her that the airforce was preparing tactical strikes on the smugglers' tunnels running under the border between Egypt and Gaza. With Jenny gone, they'd already lost their connection to the UNRWA conduit. Ziva knew it would only slow the traffic--within a week, new tunnels would be dug. But it was _something_, even if it didn't cleanse the bitter taste that had been left by the necessity to facilitate the arms shipments in the first place.

"What's their plan?"

"Rolling up the Rafah cell. And, as you suspected, closing the routes into Gaza. But no more than that."

"Of course not. Don't want to make the terrorists suspicious."

"They won't get away, Jenny."

"Don't you get it?" There was a dangerous edge in her tone. "They already have. And there's not a damn thing I can do about it without destroying my career." She wrenched her hand away, curling her fingers into a fist.

"No, they haven't."

"Ziva—" She allowed Jenny to scrutinize her closely, hoping that her face would make plain all the things she couldn't bring herself to say. The other woman's hot anger faded, although Ziva could see a colder fury lurking beneath the surface. "Don't do anything stupid," she finally said. "It's not worth it."

"I am many things—"

"—but stupid isn't one of them. I know."

"Then you also know that I am capable of making my own decisions." Ziva wanted to reach out and smooth the line between Jenny's brows. It would have been so easy to offer physical reassurance, and any other comfort she could provide was much messier and less certain. But she respected the other woman's need for distance--recognized the same wariness she wore along with her sidearm.

"What are you planning?"

"I have a friend who is well positioned to hear rumors. He would be very interested to know the identities and whereabouts of certain individuals. It is information that both the Mukhabarat and certain competitors might be eager to learn-- after we're gone, of course."

Jenny brightened a little. "Mukhabarat has been very eager since 9/11 to demonstrate their allegiance in the War on Terror." But she faltered even as she spoke, and Ziva wondered if she was having second thoughts about issuing what would be, essentially, a death sentence for the four men. Ziva had no such qualms. She had seen what the men were capable of and knew there was no possibility that a criminal prosecution would ever be brought-- it would be much too costly for all sides.

"I will ask my friend, if he is able, to see that the information reaches the government first."

Jenny ducked her gaze, but the relief was clear. "I think that's probably for the best." Seconds later, an enormous yawn cracked her face. Ziva looked at her watch, surprised to find that it was three in the morning. The adrenaline of the evening was only now ebbing. In twenty minutes, she'd probably feel like she'd been hit by a bus, but at the moment she was still hyper-aware.

"We should get some sleep. The strikes in Rafah will begin at 0700, since the tunnels are more heavily trafficked at night."

They ambled slowly down the hall to Jenny's room. "Ziva," she said softly as she sank onto the bed.

"Yes?" Caught in the doorway, she turned. In the darkened room, Jenny sat half in the bar of light from the hallway, half in shadow.

"Think about this before you do it. I appreciate the sentiment—really. But there's no need to stick your neck out on this one and cause yourself all sorts of unnecessary problems."

"As the local control, it's my decision to make. Absent contrary orders, Mossad has no say in how I choose to run my operations!" She was surprised at the unexpected force of her own denial.

"I know." Jenny held up a hand to forestall argument. "I know they don't. And I can't make the decision for you, either. I just… I suppose I just want to be sure you've thought it through." The words were uncharacteristically hesitant, leading Ziva to wonder exactly what kind of experience one accrued in five solid years of undercover work-- though she knew would never ask.

"Do not worry about me."

When nothing else was forthcoming, she turned to leave. Jenny's whisper was so quiet that she almost missed. Almost.

"What did you say?"

"I said, but I do. Worry about you."

"Why?"

Jenny shrugged. "That's what friends do."

The simple statement was like a punch to the gut. Ziva gripped the doorjamb. "Are we friends?"

"I'd like us to be."

It was easier somehow, in the quiet hallways and chiaroscuro shadows of the small hours, to respond honestly to the invitation.

"Me, too," Ziva whispered, her throat thick. Neither one of them was accustomed to giving much of themselves away.

"Good." Jenny smiled, breaking the heavy moment. "Friendly enough for you to bring me coffee tomorrow morning instead of tea?"

"The doctor said—"

"The doctor can go hang. It took me two and a half hours today to use the Hebrew you taught me to browbeat some sniveling teenaged intern into bringing me a cup. He almost wet his pants."

"Well, then, in the interest of avoiding an international diplomatic incident, yes. I will bring you coffee."

"Then you are a true friend."

"Good night, Jenny."

"Good night, Ziva. Sleep well."

She pulled the door softly behind her and padded the last few steps to her own room feeling heavy and light at the same time.

* * *

End 14


	15. Chapter 15

False Flags

pt. 15

* * *

Ziva was in the habit of keeping promises, but when she knocked on Jenny's door at 0650 with two mugs of coffee in her hand, there was no answer. She knocked again, nudging the door open with her toe when no response was forthcoming. The room was empty but the bed was made.

Still clutching the coffee, she padded down to the conference room. Even before she reached the open door, the sound of Jenny's voice confirmed her deduction. She was speaking English again, so Ziva settled in to wait, sliding one mug across the table. The look of pure rapture that greeted the first sip was almost enough to set Ziva off-- but Mossad agents don't giggle, and so she managed to contain herself to an undignified sort of choking sound. It did not escape her notice that Jenny was in the same clothes as the day before, although her healing ribs now allowed her to dress herself and they'd given up and cut a slit in her jeans when she'd grown tired of the borrowed sweatpants.

Precisely at 0705 the other phone rang, and Ziva greeted the bored voice of the Mossad officer who was clearly displeased to have been assigned reporting duty.

"David."

"The air strikes were successful. We are estimating a 100% elimination rate of known smuggling routes."

"Casualties?" It would be the first question Jenny would ask.

"Unknown at this time."

"Acknowledged."

"Deputy Director David sends his regards."

"Please return them."

They hung up with the same exaggerated courtesy. She turned to find Jenny regarding the bottom of her coffee cup gloomily.

"Any chance of a refill?"

"Good morning to you, too. Though I suppose that since you did not sleep, the greeting does not seem as necessary."

She smiled. "Good morning, Ziva. I tried to sleep, but I couldn't. Never fear, I put the time to good use."

Ziva studied her. Beyond the crumpled shirt fading bruises she seemed less troubled than she had the night before. "What have you done?"

"So you already know me well enough to worry. I promise, it's nothing that requires inter-governmental apologies. It does, however, require more coffee."

The pointed look was enough to make Ziva cross to the non-secure phone and call the kitchen for a carafe. Besides, her own mug was dangerously low.

While they waited, Ziva filled Jenny in on her own calls. "The air strikes were successful. They think they managed to render unusable all of the tunnels we knew about."

"Were there casualties?"

"Not that we know of," she said, choosing her phrasing carefully. Spending four months on the ground ministering to the needs of the Palestinians in Rafah had given Jenny a different perspective on the situation than her own. A part of her, in fact, admired the empathy the other woman had shown for the subjects of a job that was supposed to be merely a cover. Another part of her had resented it, knowing that it made her own job more complicated.

"Not a very reassuring answer." But Jenny must have realized it was all the answer she was going to get, because after a young man-- the same one from yesterday if the way he kept glancing nervously at the redhead was anything to go by--deposited the coffee and departed, she dropped the subject.

Jenny poured them both a cup and took her time sampling the new brew before she finally seemed ready to approach her news.

"I'm leaving." Ziva kept silent. She had found it to be a technique that effectively yielded information when people wanted to talk. "I've accepted a position heading up a new Joint Terrorism Task Force in Syria."

A thousand questions came to mind, but none seemed appropriate. Finally, she settled on the one that, unasked, would haunt her most. "Jenny, is this because of what happened?-- "

"No," she cut Ziva off. "It's really not--not anymore than it's about the thousand other natural shocks I've inherited with this job." Ziva scrutinized the green eyes, the wide mouth, the hands wrapped securely around the mug, looking hard for any sign that Jenny was lying to her-- or to herself. She saw only a kind of bare honesty that was almost painful to witness.

"Okay."

"I've spent the last five years in covert ops. I've done it because I believed in what I was doing; because, like you, I was trained to take orders well; and because, to my surprise, I turned out to be damn good at it. Good enough that it's going to cost me to get the chance to do something else."

Ziva privately thought it had probably already cost her plenty.

"It's time to move on," Jenny continued. "I need to do something that lets me see a bigger picture-- preferably while not having to start someone else's new life every six months."

If she had raised her voice or insisted, even in the slightest, Ziva would have doubted her. She was trained to disbelieve, and grand declarations of purpose were the sorts of things she found particularly difficult to take at face value. But Jenny simply stated the facts, without artifice or emphasis. She was a woman at peace with her decision--and it suited her.

"If that is what you want, then I am happy for you."

"Thank you."

"When do you leave?"

"Tomorrow."

"So soon?"

She laughed. "The doctors have cleared me to travel, and NCIS doesn't really have the most generous leave package. I'm no good to them here. I can't even leave the embassy."

Ziva sternly reminded herself that such was the nature of the lives they had chosen. Nothing was permanent, and no one was immune to orders. She flinched when a hand cupped her cheek.

"Stop," Jenny instructed, leaning in and pinning her with a stare.

"Stop what?"

"I can see you making a list in your head. Secure travel documents for the crazy American; put her on a plane; debrief Mikhail; establish communications channels for Atef; return to Rafah and close down the command post; report back to Tel Aviv…"

"I was not," she defended, but Jenny just kept looking at her with that unnerving stare. A tactical retreat was in order. "I do not think that you are crazy."

Jenny sat back, smirking. "Really?"

"Bizarre, perhaps," Ziva offered.

"Not sure that's better," Jenny muttered, then shook herself. "Anyway, that's neither here nor there. How committed are you to that list?"

"Jenny?"

She looked away for a moment before squaring her shoulders. "Syria sits at the confluence of smuggling routes through the entire Middle East."

"Sure." Ziva shrugged. "Overland, it's in between everywhere and everywhere else."

"This Task Force may be our best opportunity to cut off the pipelines into Iraq and Iran, as well to keep an eye on developments in Lebanon. I know a great deal about the structure of the weapons trade--I've spent years tracking illegal arms in one way or another. But I don't have as much expertise as I'd like in the nuances of the region, and I'm not entirely comfortable in Levantine Arabic. The other people DOJ sends will have lots of very valuable information, but I need someone local, who can fill in those gaps."

"What are you saying?" She knew better than to assume, even if she couldn't quite quash the flicker that passed through her.

"I'm saying that NCIS agrees that I need a Mossad liaison. And I'm asking whether you're committed to that to-do list or whether you might throw it all over for a guided tour of the conference rooms of Damascus and Aleppo."

Ziva took a long moment to consider the implications. Without a doubt her career at Mossad was on the fast track, and she had worked incredibly hard to ensure that no one thought that had anything to do with her father's position-- at least, not anyone who'd worked with her. She'd been examined and tested, and she had passed them all with flying colors. She had satisfied her superiors and outpaced all of her peers, and it was lonelier than she could have imagined. Syria would mean a detour, more investigation than interrogation, information-gathering instead of action. Of course, given Jenny's penchant for getting into trouble, she was sure there would be a smattering of action.

"How do you say it in English? _Sign me up_." By the time she stumbled through the idiom, they were both grinning.

"Thank god," Jenny said as she refilled her coffee again. "I was worried you would turn me down and I'd be stuck working with a burly man named Uri who would speak only in monosyllables—and then only when spoken to."

"I am glad to be able to save you from such a cruel fate."

"You have no idea how grateful I am. When can you be ready to leave?"

"Bossing me around already?"

"Breaking you in. Clearly it's going to take some work."

"Two days. As you correctly noted, there are a few things I have to do before I leave."

"I can work with that. I'll tell them we arrive on Thursday, and I'll worry about my own documents."

Ziva acknowledged the statement, secretly amused at how quickly Jenny had taken to giving orders. "In the meantime, then, I have some contacts to make-- and some loose ends to start to tie up. I will likely not be back for lunch, so be sure that you eat this time."

"Be careful. And be sure." Jenny's words were loaded, and Ziva inclined her head to indicate her understanding.

"I will return by evening. Shalom, Jenny."

"Shalom, Ziva."

* * *

Fin

* * *

A/N: Well, that's all she wrote. Thank you so much to everyone who hung in there and commented; it means a great deal. (R, whoever you are, you often made me laugh.) I hope you've enjoyed it-- or that if you haven't, you'll tell me why. And for those of you who were hoping for some JIVA, I will simply say: don't give up on me yet. Cheers. -ts.


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